Part of her said Pretty Boy could be there at any minute.
The other part of her broke out a small windowpane with her elbow. She reached in and opened the door. She tossed the broken glass into the backyard, which was overgrown with thick bright grass. She stepped inside.
She walked through to the living room. "Like, minimal," she muttered. In the bedroom were one bed, a dresser, a floor lamp. The kitchen had one table and two chairs. Two glasses sat on the retro Formica counter, spattered like a Jackson Pollock painting. A few chipped dishes and silverware. In the living room was a single folding chair. Nothing else.
Rune paused in front of the bathroom. There was a stained glass window in the door. "Oooo, classy poddy," she muttered. Somebody's initials on the door. "W.C." The guy who built the house, she guessed.
She looked through the closets--all of them except the one in the bedroom, which was fastened with a big, new glistening lock. Under the squeaky bed were two suitcases. Heavy, battered leather ones. She pulled them out, starting to sweat in the heat of the close, stale apartment. She stood up and tried to open a window. It was nailed shut. Why? she wondered.
She went back to the suitcases and opened the first one. Clothes. Old, frayed at the cuffs and collar points. The browns going light, the whites going yellow. She closed it and slid it back. In the second suitcase: a razor, an old double-edged Gillette, a tube of shave cream like toothpaste; a Swiss Army knife; keys; a small metal container of cuff links; nail scissors, toothbrush.
She dug down through the layers.
And found a small, battered brown accordion folder with a rubber band around it. It was very heavy. She opened it. She found a letter--from Weissman, Burkow, Stein & Rubin, P.C.--describing how his savings, about fifty-five thousand, had been transferred to an account in the Cayman Islands. A plane ticket, one-way coach, to Georgetown on Grand Cayman. The flight was leaving day after tomorrow.
Next to it, she found his passport. She'd never seen one before. It was old and limp and stained. There were dozens of official-looking stamps in the back.
She didn't even look at the name until she was about to put it back.
Wait. Who the hell was Vincent Spinello?
Oh, shit! At Stein's law firm, when she'd looked through the lawyer's Rolodex, she'd been so nervous she'd misread the name. She'd seen Vincent Spinello and thought Victor Symington. Oh, Christ, she'd gotten it all wrong. And she'd even broken the poor man's window!
All a waste. She couldn't believe it. The danger, the risk, Pretty Boy ... all a waste.
"Goddamn," she whispered harshly.
Only, wait ... The letter.
She opened the letter again. It was addressed to Symington and at this address. So what was he doing with Vincent Spinello's passport?
But as she looked at the passport again, the condensed, grim little picture, there was no doubt. Spinello was the man she'd seen at Robert Kelly's apartment. Who was he?
She dug to the bottom of the folder and found out. What made it so heavy was something that was wrapped in a piece of newspaper--a pistol. With it was a small box of cheap cardboard, flecked brown-green. The box, too, was heavy. On the side was printing in what she thought was German. She could make out only one word. Teflon.
Oh, God ...
Symington--or Spinello--was the man who'd killed Robert Kelly. He and Pretty Boy had found the Union Bank robbery money. They'd stolen it and killed him! And the loot was in the closet!
Rune dropped to her knees and looked at the padlock on the closet. Leaned close, squinting. Pulled it, rattled the solid lock.
Then she froze. At the sound of a door opening then closing.
Was it the front or the back door? She couldn't tell. But she knew one thing. It was either Pretty Boy or Symington. And she knew something else: they both wanted her dead.
Rune gave one last tug at the closet door. It didn't move a millimeter.
Footsteps inside now. Nearby. If he finds me here, he'll kill me! She stuffed the accordion envelope into her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
A creak of floorboards
No, no ...
She thought they were in the front of the apartment. In the living room, which wasn't visible from where she was. She could probably get out the back without being seen. She glanced into the corridor fast, then ducked back into the bedroom. Yep, it was empty.
Rune took a breath and ran from the bedroom.
She slammed right into Victor Symington's chest.